


The Famous Living Dead

by conventionalweapons (aconventionalweapon)



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Black Parade, Character Death, Just death in general, Major character death - Freeform, Minor Character Death, The Black Parade, i'm terrible at tags, lots of people die, my chemical romance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:48:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22298869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aconventionalweapon/pseuds/conventionalweapons
Summary: Frank is trying, really he is. He's trying to move on after the murder of his parents, he's trying to get past the mutilated right arm, and he's definitely just trying to get through high school. Unfortunately though, he has nightmares that haunt him, a friend that seems to just get stranger as the days pass, and a teacher that is convinced Frank's somehow going to be involved in opening a door to the other side, breaking a curse put upon four families hundreds of years ago, and bringing about the end of the world. No big deal right?Things are only made worse when his friend's brother, who looks scarily like a figure from his nightmares, shows up out of the blue and he realizes, maybe his teacher isn't so crazy after all.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, to clarify: My story titled "The Black Parade" was written a long while ago and it's not going to be finished (maybe even deleted), why? Well, this is it's re-write. Completely redoing what I did in the past and scrapping some old ideas in favor of some new ones but following the same overall plot and endgame I originally had in mind. So enjoy! Hopefully? 
> 
> Comments MUCH appreciated!
> 
> If you see typos, for the love of god let me know cause I can re-read things a thousand times and still miss it. It's a gift.

Karma is a bitch. The notion of making just one little stupid decision, - one that seemed so right in the moment - and it coming back around to bite you in the ass later on? Who’s bright idea was that? Buddhists and Hindus and other Indian religions actually, they’re the ones. They’re pretty cool though, all zen and shit. Karma can go fuck itself though. Was there even such a thing as good karma? Cause, turning someone in for literally almost beating someone to death should not be a source of bad karma, and this was most definitely bad karma. Karma, karma, karma. Seriously, take it back. The short little shit getting the ever living daylights beat out of him now doesn’t want it. Letterman jacket clad, meat-headed dickwads can just fuck off too. Know what? West Milford High School in general can be wiped from the map also, nobody would miss it.  


“Alright Nelson, I think Iero has learned his lesson.” Fucking backwards ass, mother fucking, wanker of a teacher, Mr. Trumb - where does that name even originate back to? Jocks like Nelson, he knows where they come from - the furthest pits of hell where they decide they’re too stupid to even be a demon so they cast their sorry asses up to Earth so they can just torment those smaller than them in mindless fashion in back woods towns like West Milford.  


“See you later Frankie!” Stereotypical fair haired, air brained cheerleader, blowing a kiss at the loser who just got beat up by her neanderthal boyfriend. Frank mimes a sea lion rolling, just barely making it off to the side with his back against the lockers - no longer in the line of fire of every germ ridden shoe in the school as the next period bell shrills. It takes a hot minute to be able to even take a deep breath once he’s stopped moving, what with all the white hot blooms of pain in his ribs and all. West Fucking Milford.  


Located fifteen or so miles northwest of Oakland, West Milford, New Jersey is a small town wasteland. According to Frank at least. Why would anyone want to live here when Belleville is only an hour away? At least that place was cool. A little crime-ridden, admittedly, but at least the music there was plentiful. Belleville was home. Not this place, this was where old decrepit folks came to congregate, according to his grandfather. Friends were in short supply back there, but if at all possible, it’s worse in West Milford. Belleville had small niches of people who were generally composed of the cream of the crop of each type. The moment you stepped through the doors to catch the local bands shredding people’s faces off - it didn’t matter what group you belonged to. Music’s music. West Milford is sorely lacking in anything even remotely close to what Frank had back home. What a mouthful that is too. West Milford. Why did there have to be a West Milford at all, or a New Milford for that matter? Isn’t Milford enough, did they lack creativity when they were naming all these small little shit holes? Aren’t there like eight other Milfords in other states though too? At least there is only one Belleville, or at least only one that actually matters. There’s one in Pennsylvania, but as far as Frank is concerned they stole that from Jersey.  


They had had a nice little house in Belleville, his family, back when his parents were happily married and his mom wasn’t trying to introduce him to her latest prospect. The Iero’s never had that typical familial relationship. They weren’t clingy for one. If someone wanted to go out to the store, it wasn’t a requirement that it become an entire family ordeal. Going out to dinner entailed friends and lots of drinking by all three members, illegally of course for Frank, but who in Belleville was going to rat him out for that? He had tattoos on his neck, back, chest, and almost a full sleeve on his left arm by the time he hit seventeen. A little drinking wouldn’t hurt his bad rep for being a juvenile delinquent already. Besides, the cops sure didn’t care - as long as they weren’t chasing down yet another murderer they were good.  


Frank’s mom worked down the street at Ellie’s Kitchen and his dad worked for the local post office and moonlighted as a jazz drummer for a few different high end bars. They were an overall, happy family until things started to take a downwards decline.  


Linda Iero lost her job at Ellie’s, therefore Frank Sr. ended up taking on more and more jobs - both during the day and the night - and it all spiraled out of control until his parents were at each other’s throats. At least the divorce was relatively quick. Frank’s mother’s turn around time on men ever since was just as fast.  


For a year in between things followed relatively the same pattern. Wake up, slip out of the house before his mom could introduce him to her bed partner for the evening, loiter around for a few hours before school, arrive fashionably late as to avoid the hallway creeps, sleep his way through every class period, dodge the jocks if he could in-between, loiter around smoking in the parking lot after school, then drag his ass back home well after his mother had already gone out for the evening. It varied on the weekends when he was with his father of course, then he’d head out with him at night to the bars to watch his dad drum, dream about what it would be like to be in a real band, and then convince the bartender to slip him a drink or two when he realized he didn’t have shit going for him in life.  


Things took a sharp left turn on Frank Sr.’s birthday. The Iero’s were all together - celebrating like they promised they would for every birthday and holiday - when a man snuck in to the house brandishing a knife. Frank had just left the kitchen to take a piss, already a few beers deep to mentally prepare himself for having both parents under one roof, when the attack started. The screams that echoed throughout the house will forever haunt his nightmares. Linda Iero was crying begging for whoever it was to stop, his father already having fallen silent, and all Frank did was cower in the corner of the bathroom. No cellphone to have called for help, no neighbors that would take anymore stock in someone screaming any more so than a bee buzzing by, and no chance in the world he could get past a murderer only a few feet down the hall.  


It’s only when the silence became deafening that the door to the bathroom was unlocked and the teen hesitantly took one step out the door, body trembling from head to toe, that the noise returned in the form of a cackle from the kitchen, boots thumped across the wood floor toward the hall. Frank’s blood ran cold, paralyzed halfway out of the bathroom.  


Frank remembers the first words the murderer uttered “Hello Frank. Nice to see you again.” He would later learn, the voice belonged to a kid the size of a rhino that used to go to school. Kelly something. The very same one, as aforementioned in relation to bad karma, that Frank had ratted out to the principal a few years ago for dragging another student down a flight of stairs and then wailing on him till he’d been moments from death. That poor little freshman never came back to school, his family too afraid for his life. The bully himself was expelled and then later arrested as a minor when the victim’s family pressed charges.  


Unfortunately he’d turned eighteen since then and the fucked up legal system apparently had him changed over to house arrest, judging by the pretty anklet adorning his leg. It always blows Frank’s mind just how long it took for the police to arrive when that thing must’ve been sending out all kind of signals.  


Frank doesn’t remember much of what happened between that moment and the moment he woke up in a hospital bed; his left arm wrapped in gauze from mid bicep all the way to the tips of his fingers and his body just generally feeling like he’d been run over by a truck. His grandfather, also Frank, was sitting, head bowed beside the bed, face red and cheeks wet. Frank remembers the exact moment he realized he was parentless. It was the worst sinking sensation he’d ever felt and it took everything his grandfather had to drag him out in to the light of day the moment the hospital released him months later.  


Occasionally he has nightmares that he thinks might be repressed memories. Flashes of fire dancing across the back of his eyelids, the feeling of water filling his lungs, a streak of white. Frank was told by the doctors that the tank of a teen had held Frank’s arm over the burners on the stove and then - when he’d decided that he’d had his fill of burning flesh - he drug Frank into the very bathroom he’d emerged from and held him down as he filled the tub. It was a miracle he was alive. A miracle. Sure.  


When Frank returned to the house for the first time, he couldn’t even come within a half step of the bathroom, let alone the kitchen. His parents had been stabbed to death there; his arm mutilated. The future had almost been cut short for Frank too, just down the hall. The moving crew had had to do most of the work packing up his belongings and various knick knacks his mother had adored. Everything else was sold, the house went on the market a few months later, and now some stepford family has taken over traipsing all over his family’s crime scene.  


Kelly disappeared after being formally convicted of two counts of first degree murder and one count of attempted murder. There was a manhunt for a while, cops patrolling the streets, and even one stationed outside of Frank’s grandfather’s house, where he moved in after the murders. Nothing turned up and eventually they decided he must have fled the state. There was still a warrant out of course, but the cruiser outside of their house went home and the cops slowly let it slip from their minds.  


His grandfather filled the days for the past year with as much laughter as he could. Lifting his grandson’s spirit only marginally at first then more and more as time passed. The bedroom stopped seeing so much of its teenage occupant, letting the couch have its chance to get to know his lazy ass instead. The vacant expression on his face receded and normal life started to resume once more as if nothing had happened. The only constant reminder was his mutilated right arm.  


Going back to school was the worst experience Frank’s ever had in his life, including the loss of his parents. The false sorrow that purveyed his every class irritated him to no end. People tiptoed around him like he was made of glass and pointedly attempted not to look at his destroyed arm when the bandages finally came off. Frank took to wearing long sleeves more often than not. Once enough time had passed though, the bullying he’d endured before recent events had slowly made its return and high school was back to the natural order of things. Speaking of which-  


“You just going to lay on the floor, curled up against the lockers all day or are we going to class?” A shoe is nudging at his side, tapping against a rather large bruise he’d received a week ago after being hit with a baseball by the team pitcher - which of course he claimed to have been accidental; Frank was completely west of him, dragging his feet through laps around the field.  


“Just leave me here to die.” Frank’s forehead leans against the cool metal of the lockers, brain mentally sorting the options of spending the rest of the school day here, ditching out completely, or actually going to class in order of appeal. A hand on the back of his shirt decides for him though when it drags him backwards away from the lockers and yanks him up on to his knees. “Come on, get up. We’re late for history.” The combat boot nudges against his leg.  


“Fuck that. ‘M just gonna bail out on the rest of today.” Frank plants his palms down on the well trodden carpet, feeling just about every speck of dirt dig into his skin as he pushes himself up on to his feet.  


“No, you’re going to go to class with me and learn some random facts about presidents’ pastimes or some shit.” Frank turns to face the owner of the boots, craning his neck just a hair to meet his eyes. There’s an eyebrow raised right up to the other’s hairline and a jaw so set he’s surprised he can’t hear the bones breaking from the pressure.  


“Fucking Ronald McDonald can go fuck himself. I’m done.” Frank’s hands wave wildly as he speaks, it’s a problem really. He can’t talk without flailing them around as embellishment.  


“You know he’d let Josh beat your ass twice if he ever heard you calling him that.” The pair turns to walk down the hall, Frank trying find the nearest exit and the lanky kid next to him trying to steer him towards class. Apparently Mikey Way is going to get his way this round as they make it to the door of history class. Frank’s bag is, unsurprisingly, missing so he’s sans homework, textbook, and even pencil when they plop down in to their seats; the rest of the class not even misses so much as a beat when they enter. Mr. McDonald, though, shoots Frank a murderous glare. Just him, because Mikey apparently isn’t capable of doing harm.  


Mikey in general is an enigma wrapped in a long black trench coat. Kid is more out of place looking than even Frank, but nothing touches him. In fact, the same dicks that torment Frank seem to completely sidestep around Mikey. Like they’re afraid he’s contagious or something. Whatever repellent he’s using, Frank wants it. Fill a bath with it and soak in it forever. As long as he’s close by though, Frank seems to get a pass. The moment he’s alone, though? Fuck. He just needs to superglue the two of them at the hip.  


A sheet of college ruled paper slides on to Frank’s desk with a pencil wobbling back and forth on top of it. He shoots a long suffering glance over at his desk partner, receiving a look in return like they have no idea how that got there. Never mind, he takes back the gluing himself to Mikey Fucking Way. Forcing him to go to class after the utter smackdown earlier is one thing. Forcing him to take actual notes on top of that?  


Mikey seems to get where Frank’s head is at if the tiny smirk in the corner of his mouth is any indication. The beanpole taps his pencil against his own sheet of paper to indicate that he’s already got notes written down and Frank shoots him a surreptitious middle finger.  


Classes finish out for the day in much the same manner. Frank only had to dodge a few of the football players in the halls to get between the only two classes his personal bully retardant wasn’t in with him. Frank makes a break for the bus as soon as the bell rings, scurrying into the seat at the back; ducking down until he feels the knobby knee of his gangly legged friend bang into his.  


“There’s a football game tonight. The Neanderthals are at practice so we’re good.” Mikey leans back, shoving an earbud into his right ear and offering up the left to Frank. Mikey has been on a Misfits kick lately, so Frank is unsurprised when American Psycho is already blasting out his eardrum. “Your grandfather invited me over for dinner tonight by the way.”  


“Of course he did. Thinks I need to have friends over all the time or something.” There’s a crack in the classic Mikey Way stoicism for a brief moment as the corner of his mouth curls up. “What’d you say?”  


“I’m not going to turn down your grandfather’s chili, dude. I’m not stupid.” Mikey has a good point there. You’d have to be crazy to turn down his gramps’ chili. It’s vegan of course, just for Frank but no one seems to be perturbed by that cause it’s frequently requested by their neighbors. The house always reeks of it and sends Frank’s mouth in to a drooling frenzy. “Besides, figured maybe we can jam a little bit?” With that the good thoughts about heavenly food all fly right out the bus window.  


“No.” There’s a huff of breath next to him and the feel of eyes digging into the back of his head as he turns to look out the window at the small town blowing by. Thankfully, Mikey knows not to push any further lest he wants to stay for dinner. Or maybe he doesn’t know self preservation all that well because he just has to open his mouth once more.  


“You used to be so good, Frank. Don’t let that kind of talent slip away.” Frank’s fingers twitch, curling up into a fist on his right hand. A somewhat slack fist since his skin doesn’t pull quite right like it used to. It’s a constant remind that that Frank will never be the same as he was before, no matter how hard he plays at normalcy. “Oh don’t get all grumpy on me Frank.”  


“Shut the fuck up, Mikey.” The earbud is suddenly and viciously ripped from his ear by long, slender fingers. The buds drop down on to their respective laps. Mikey’s eyes are digging holes into the side of Frank’s face, but he’s too busy fuming to care.  


The younger Way brother - apparently there is an older one out there somewhere that Frank has never met - has a knack for bringing up sore subjects on the worst of days. His favorite topic is Frank’s least favorite. Music had always been something that flowed through the Iero household on a regular basis. It was the one thing that often brought them all together, let the bad fights and restless nights flow away and get lost in the rhythm for at least a little while. When a young Frank Iero picked up a guitar for the first time, he was immediately taken with the sleek wood grain Stratocaster.  


It was by no means brand new; the clear coating was a bit scuffed up in some spots, sure, but it was his absolute pride and joy throughout his childhood. The instrument had been with him through the good times and the bad. It’d seen him through his parents divorce and been his constant companion when the number of friendships was at an all time low.  


When he turned ten, his parents signed him up for guitar lessons with one of their neighbors a few doors down. Twenty fiver year old Ray Toro was the best instructor anyone could ever have in Frank’s opinion. Their musical tastes followed relatively the same path while Frank was still too young to really comprehend the music in its entirety. Once he got older, Frank drifted more and more towards the punk scene and rhythm end of the spectrum whereas Ray stayed more true to his love of Iron Maiden and mind boggling guitar solos. Still, they meshed as student and teacher and eventually the lessons weren’t even being paid for as Toro had decided the Iero family was just that, family.  


Frank’s parents often had Ray over for dinner and would talk about how much Frank’s playing had improved over the years. Toro would gush over a riff that the young teen had created on his own and attempt to explain to Frank’s mother just how talented her son was. As any mom should, she would respond with “of course he is.”  


However, as with everything else in Frank’s life would eventually turn, things went downhill very quickly shortly after his fourteenth birthday. Ray Toro had opened a guitar repair business down in Belleville not long beforehand and would often be found buried under piles of work. Work he loved, enjoyed, and would probably have done forever if he’d had the chance or if the limelight never came a calling. Unfortunately, the sheer amount of guitars he had in the shop - varying from entry level instruments up to absolute works of art - was a major attention grabber to the seedier part of town.  


Jersey in general had a large population of rising talents. Bands that would eventually make it big and head off into the big wide world. Certain locals saw the money to be had in selling instruments to newly forming bands, for costs far lower than normal. They were free for these people though, simply because they were all stolen. That put Ray’s little instrument repair shop with its rinky, dink security system right in their crosshairs.  


A group of men broke in to the shop one evening, unaware that the curly headed owner was still working in the back. When Ray left his office and came out to confront the crooks, the men panicked. One of them had a gun stashed in his pocket; upon realizing they’d been caught, visions of iron bars danced across their vision. In a poorly made decision to remove the sole witness of their crime, they shot Ray straight in the chest, effectively ending the life of an innocent shop owner with dreams of one day playing for the masses.  


Young Frank attended the funeral of his favorite teacher and friend. It was a bleak, overcast day that was only the prelude to more funerals in his future. His Stratocaster went dormant for months following Toro’s death. Every time he would pick it up to play, he’d just be reminded that the sweeping solos that would fill his ears would never be heard by anyone. They were just memories to him now and Frank wasn’t even talented enough yet to have kept them alive.  


Eventually the wood grain Strat would gain a few sisters, the prize one being a white Les Paul that Frank’s grandfather gifted to him for Christmas one year. She was affectionately dubbed Pansy and would be Frank’s instrument of choice for the few years leading up to his parents death and a destroyed right arm.  


After the events of that horrible day, the double funeral, numerous and increasingly depressing hospital trips, and thousands of pairs of staring eyeballs, Frank just couldn’t find it in him anymore to play. His arm was destroyed, the skin pulled painfully for a long time. Strumming was just not something he could even bear to do. Pansy’s pretty white coat eventually turned grey from dust, until she as well as her sister guitars found themselves being hastily shoved in the dark, back corner of the storage closet.  


Frank had met Mikey not too long before his parents were murdered. The tall kid - taller than Frank at least - had heard him play a few times before. The few times he’d come over to his house, Frank would entertain him with a few chorus lines and some little riffs he’d been tinkering around with. Mikey would give small comments and suggest a few notes in exchange, revealing his own musical knowledge in turn. The moment Frank had shoved the guitars in the closet however, he turned to his friend standing just down the hall with his head bowed and outright told him never to ask him to play again. Frank was done with all of that. He was done attempting to be something his physical limitations would never allow him to be again.  


Mikey had tried to persuade him otherwise, convince him that he should not give up so easily. The cold look in Frank’s eyes had shut him up at the time, but as the minutes, hours, days, months, and eventually a year went on Mikey stopped caring what Frank told him not to do. Which is why they’re sitting here now, with lasers shooting out of Mikey’s eyes at the back of his seat partner’s head and Frank’s attempting to blast holes through the bus’ window.  


“We have papers due Friday.” The change of subject is so sudden and unexpected that Frank nearly guffaws out loud. Now, they aren’t the only ones on the bus as it’s, by this point, trundling down the small roads and making various stops to let its school weary passengers off, so Frank decides it’s best to reign the noises in.  


“What the fuck ever. Stupid smart ass.” Mikey’s thigh shifts against Frank’s, his wiry frame wiggling beside him. Clearly there’s something he wants to say but for the moment he’s quiet.  


Eventually the ancient, yellow bus wheezes to a stop just a block down from Frank’s grandfather’s house. They’re at the door of the home in no time at all. Frank has half a mind to slam the door behind him before Mikey can wedge a foot in, but ultimately decides against it; choosing instead to completely ignore him. Grandpa likes Mikey Way and knows for a fact that no matter how much he does not want him there right now, his grandfather is already looking forward to the young Way’s arrival.  


Frank has a sneaky suspicion that the two of them are in cahoots or something. Grandpa seems to just know what needs to be done for school like he attends it himself and Mikey has learned all of Frank’s embarrassing childhood stories by now - that’s for sure. As long as he’s not asked to do anything he’s not comfortable with, then everything is okay until he has to go to bed, wake up, and do it all again the next day.  


Mikey is trundling along behind Frank, no doubt glancing into each room as they pass by them. Frank is hoping that any minute his grandfather will just pop up out of nowhere and rip the gum off his shoe and step in it himself. Frank just wants to scurry in to his bedroom, close the curtains that have no doubt been flung open during the day - _you need more light in here Frank, it’s bad for your eyes -_ , shove his headphones in, and let the world fade away for a while.  


Alas, Gramps must be out because Mikey is still hot on his heels as Frank makes the sharp right into his bedroom at the end of the hall. Luckily, or maybe not cause anything could be stewing in that brain of his right now, Mikey remains reticent. In fact, once the taller plops down in to the desk chair and Frank drapes the room in darkness before flinging his body down on his bed, it’s so still Frank ends up passing out.  


Frank is a fitful sleeper when he takes naps. He tosses and turns, flings his arms in all directions. There’s been unfortunate lamps and coffee mugs shattered against the wood floor from all the flailing. It’s not his fault though, it’s the dreams. They’re more prevalent when he’s asleep during the day, his mind never shutting down all the way. Mikey has been witness to them before and knows to step in when the thrashing starts to get a bit out of hand. It’s lucky that Frank moves in that regard, so someone knows when to rescue him. He’s not sure what would happen if he didn’t move at all. The contents of his brain would probably be mush and he’d be drooling in the corner of a loony bin if the dreams were allowed to run rampant.  


The dreams themselves are hard to make out. Weird flashes of colors and fuzzy outlines of people. Most of the time Frank wakes up having absolutely no idea what he saw that has him sweating like the out of shape teenager he is, muscles spasming like they’d done actual work. The worst is his arm of course, it’s like it’s being burned all over again. More often than not, that’s what he wakes up clutching, cradling it to his chest and wheezing through the phantom pain until the last vestiges of the dream fade away. Sometimes, though, he remembers things.  


The things he classifies as his nightmares even though they pretty much all leave him waking up in a puddle of liquid distress. There is one in particular that, as of late, has been coming round a little too often. Rippling patterns of water dancing across the backs of his eyelids and the distinct outlines of not one, but two people hovering on the other side watching as the life drains from his body are the main parts of this delusion. Sometimes he can break through the surface, his lungs choking raggedly on the air, but it never lasts long. The hands clutching his shirt push him back down and the struggle gets harder and harder. It seems as though this is the one that chooses to take over his subconscious as he sleeps now.  


Frank’s body is starting to convulse a little on the bed, his hands grasping fistfuls of the bedsheets beneath him, sweat starting to gather on his skin and matte his hair in record time. His lungs are heaving in great gulps of air, like he’s actually choking to death and it takes only one loud gasp to make Mikey spin around, away from the desk covered in notes for his and Frank’s papers, and launch himself across the room. Gripping his thrashing friend’s shoulders tight, Mikey starts to shake him, gently at first then more violently when Frank’s eyes remain tightly squeezed.  


“Frank! Frank, wake up! It’s okay!” The shaking is only the prelude to his further attempts to wake the other. It wouldn’t be a new thing for him to have to slap Frank hard across the face, but he likes to avoid that option if at all possible. It’s just not worth the strange mottled bruising that sometimes follows and the sneers from their peers. However, now is looking like it’s going to be one of those times.  


The water is more turbulent as Frank struggles for breath, grasping weakly at his assailant’s arms as they hold him to the plastic bottom of the tub. After a few moments, his thrashing gets weaker, the corners of his vision are starting to go black. Frank’s dying, he can feel it. His lungs are on fire, burning up inside his chest with the lack of oxygen. It’s only a few seconds more before they can’t take it anymore and they force him to take in a huge gulp of water. All his limbs can muster are a few more weak movements before he goes still.  


For one whole minute, everything is just peaceful. The water is settling around his killer’s arms, he can see clearly through the liquid like staring up through a window. Except, where normally this would be the part where he’s thrown from the nightmare by Mikey or his grandfather and dragged back in to reality, gasping and shaking from the intensity of the dream, he’s still trapped.  


Frank watches as the hands release their grip, wills his limbs to move and save himself but his body just feels like lead. There’s a slight ripple as Kelly, he can make him out now even though in the real world he’s always known, pulls his hands completely from the tub, but then the water is perfectly still again. Frank’s just floating there, his body lifting ever so slightly from the bottom of the tub, but not enough to break the surface. He can almost feel everything shutting down, like lights being switched off one by one. More movement on the other side grabs his attention, he’s never gotten this far in the dream, which his mind has now fully processed as all being in his head but still won’t release him from. There’s a shadow that doesn’t quite belong, shifting in the far corner of the bathroom.  


Kelly disappears from the dream, fading off somewhere to the side, but the shadow remains. It grows thicker, darker as it starts taking shape, moving away from the corner. As the mass gets closer, it looks more and more human like until there’s a distinct face staring down at him. If Frank’s heart could hammer any harder, it would be bursting out of his chest. This overwhelming fear consumes him as the face comes within centimeters of the water. The white hair is distinct, stark as the black shadow fully settles into the shape of a man. The clothes are dark still, indistinguishable but clearly lacking any sort of color outside of the greyscale. The eyes are what truly lock in the fear. They’re dark, haunting, and ringed by dark shadows. It’s all vaguely skeleton like, more so if there wasn’t flesh still attached and those eyes staring vacantly down at him through the water.  


A crooked smile spreads across the man’s face, then his lips part, baring tiny teeth in an even more wicked grin.  


“Frank.” The man is still on the other side of the water, but his voice rings clear as day in Frank’s ears. “Frank.” Somehow strength starts to flood back into Frank’s limbs and he makes a break for the surface, surging upwards and smacking his head right into something solid.  


Frank’s eyes fly open and he’s back in his bedroom. There’s a spot on the top of his head that is positively throbbing, his hands are twisted in his suspiciously wet bedsheets, and a friend that’s gripping on to his shoulders so tight he’ll be surprised if he doesn’t have bruises by the end of the day.  


Mikey is just staring at him, eyes wide with concern, his mouth is opening and closing like a fish, struggling to find words. It takes a few moments of them just staring at each other before Mikey collects himself and pushes back, clambering off the bed before starting to straighten out his clothes.  


Aside from a few glances thrown over his shoulder, the young Way says nothing. Just slowly makes his way back to the desk chair, plopping down in it like he owns the place and returning to his schoolwork. Frank’s downright thankful.  


Frank’s clothes are positively soaked along with the sheets below him. There’s a steady stream of sweat rolling down from his hair, onto his cheek down to his chin where it drips off. It’s the worst he’s had in a while, he knows it and he knows Mikey knows it. Mikey blissfully knows not to ask Frank about it just yet. He will, in an hour or two, when the gangly legged guy just can’t contain himself anymore, but not yet. Now, he’s giving Frank time to come back down, to return to himself and recover from the adrenaline flooding through his limbs. Mostly, he’s giving him time to process. This time, unlike the others, he has something new.


	2. Chapter 2

The week passes, blissfully, without incident. Well, mostly. There’s always going to be the jockstraps in the hallways and assignments missed that Frank probably should have done if he wanted to maintain his stellar D average - or avoid angry teachers breathing down his neck at all times. Not that they didn’t already do that majority of the time anyways.  


Miraculously it’s Mikey he’s the most surprised with. Somehow he’s not blown his seams yet, waiting for Frank to tell him himself what the dream at the beginning of the week was all about this time. The Doc Martin’s tapping out an imperfect rhythm on the linoleum entail an eruption is just around the corner though. Smirking across the table at the beady eyes aimed at him, he can’t help but smirk as the tapping picks up its pace.  


Frank manages to slip out of class before Mikey, who can’t even dodge their nutball science teacher, Mr. Gurner, anyways. The guy has it out for Way, that’s for sure. Always coming up with something he just has to corner Mikey for, even though the dude has straight A’s and heart eyes aimed at him from nearly every direction.  


As Frank is approaching the front steps of his house sweaty and uncomfortable _-who the fuck decided walking would be better than the bus-_ he looks up and there he is. Mikey Fuckin’ Way.  


“How the fuck did you beat me here? I thought Gurner had you nailed to the wall?” The shrug is nearly invisible and Frank’s good mood about finally getting some proper alone time, about forty eight hours worth, with his pillow is dashed.  


“Gurner’s got nothing on me. Thinks I’m cheating off Curer or something. My legs are longer.” Well that’s a new one. Curer? Being cheated off of? The guys good at football, he’ll give him that but there’s nothing but a box of rocks up top.  


“Curer? That guy gets worse grades than me.” Frank takes a couple of steps up, unlocking the door before throwing a fist outwards at Mikey’s shoulder, who takes an all too convenient step back at precisely the right moment, sending Frank’s fist right in to the wall.  


“Ouch! Motherfucker!” With his hand being shaken around like a rag doll, Frank whips around with narrowed eyes, practically hissing at the other. “What the fuck did you do that for?”  


“Me? You were going to punch me.” The casual matter of factness just wants to make Frank throw another fist, but he’s already one down. Let’s not make it two for two.  


“Yeah! For the short comment, you ass!” The door is then flung open, banging loudly back against the wall; the handle slots right in to the hole made by many, many similar slams previously. Gramps has all but given up on telling Frank not to slam doors. Almost.  


“Merely stating a fact as to how I got here before you. My legs are longer, therefore my stride is bigger than yours.” Mikey rambles on for a few moments more about how it’s just so freaking obvious as to why Frank’s little legs didn’t get him home faster. They’d made a decision earlier in the week to tentatively walk home until the jock straps had games to go to once more. Worst idea ever.  


Once Frank and his ever present tail make it in to his room, Mikey is finally quiet as he claims the desk chair once again, dumping his backpack on the floor and fishing for his textbooks. Nerd. Frank prefers to just chill out for a while first, enjoy the fact that it’s finally the weekend.  


“You just like to slack off till the last minute.” Mikey murmurs from where his nose is buried in the book he’s got laid out on the table now. Frank wasn’t aware he was voicing his thoughts aloud, but whatever.  


“I prefer to call it ‘waiting for the right time’. ‘Sides, not like I’m going to fix my grades this far in to the year anyways. Done’s done.” Frank’s hand waves around noncommittally in the air for a moment before he realizes - yeah, that still fuckin hurts. Sitting up, he takes a moment to assess the damage done to his knuckles.  


They’re a little scraped, not too bad. Looks like rug burn or something to that degree, but then again those are the kinds of scrapes that absolutely sting like a bitch.  


“Want ‘me cream it?” Resisting the urge to laugh at the mumbled words of his friend, Frank just grabs a pillow out from behind him and lobs it at the other’s head, nailing him square in the back of it.  


“Take your face out of the book before you talk, Mikey.” Swiveling around in the chair, Mikey picks up the pillow and gives it a good toss back, pegging Frank right in the face. Alright, maybe he’s kind of glad Mikey did show up at the house today. The laughter bubbling out from between his lips and the snorts of humor now coming from Bookworm McGee are definitely worth it. It’s the lightest they’ve both felt in the last week since the dream.  


That’s how it goes though. Whenever Frank has one of his bouts, everything will get really tense and quiet between them for about a week’s time before something will finally break it and it’s back to business. Not to say that Frank doesn’t have dreams almost nightly, but he’s only counting the really bad ones. The others he seems to handle on his own well enough.  


“I asked you if you wanted some cream for your hand.” Mikey finally gets out between light hearted chuckles. Laying back down on the bed, Frank just shakes his head.  


“Nah, I’m good. I’ve had worse.” It’s not meant to bring about the kicked puppy expression that’s thrown across the room at him, ceasing all remnants of prior laughter, but it does and once more it’s quiet.  


The afternoon fades in to evening, the sun dipping behind the horizon. Frank’s room gets blessedly darker and darker until Mikey, the jerk, flips on the lamp at the desk without even picking his face up out of the book.  


The guy has been scribbling in a notebook all afternoon, writing like a man possessed. Frank had watched in fascination for a while but not he’s just downright annoyed. The pencil scratching across the page has touched every last nerve until, once again, he lobs another pillow in Mikey’s general direction. It takes out a few knick knacks on the desk, but hits its target regardless.  


“Lay the damn pencil down for five seconds and breathe Mikey. Jesus.” Running a hair through the knotted ends of his fringe, Frank rolls to the edge of his bed and sits up, stretching his limbs in all directions.  


“If somebody would actually do some work for once, I wouldn’t have to spend my afternoons taking notes for him.” Mikey slumps back in the chair, tapping on the ground just barely to get it to swivel around. There are some seriously dark circles forming around his eyes and Frank instantly feels guilty.  


“Why are you taking notes for me, dude?” There’s a long suffering sigh before Mikey stands up.  


“Because if you’d paid attention in class at all today, you’d know that Gurner’s assignment was to take notes on chapter eight, nine, and ten by Monday.” Mikey takes a few steps towards the door, grabbing the handle. “I took my own notes, so now you can at least attempt to copy some of them down for each chapter and somehow make it through at least one class this year.” Mikey’s long fingers grip the handle tighter and twist, pulling the door open. The twig takes one step out before turning his head again towards Frank, raising one eyebrow. “Well?”  


“Uh, well what?” Frank’s just sitting there, slouched on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at his friend.  


“Gramps called us down for dinner.” Frank’s right eyebrow hitches itself higher. They haven’t heard a peep from the old man all day. Frank definitely didn’t hear his tell tale shout for dinner either. Don’t underestimate the power of an elderly’s man’s vocal chords.  


Mikey steps out into the hall just as Frank stands up. In the few steps it takes for him to reach the doorway, his friend has apparently learned had to vanish into thin air because there isn’t even the distinctive sound of his booted feet stomping down the last of the steps floating through the air. _Screw him and his longs legs,_ Frank thinks as he trudges downstairs after him.  


As Frank makes the few turns towards the kitchen, he hears the low rumble of his grandfather’s voice accompanied by the higher octave of his friend’s murmuring in the other room.  


“You think he’s going to be here soon?” Frank can’t see them but he instinctively knows that there’s an annoyed expression on his grandfather’s face with the cadence in which he says the words. The soft sigh that follows is definitely Mikey’s.  


“I have no doubt it’ll be sooner than either of us realize. There’s no telling how he’s going to go about it.”  


“The ‘it’ being Frank’s d-“ The sudden silence is deafening. “Frank! You keep eavesdropping boy and you won’t see the back of your eyelids for a week. Don’t think I don’t know how far behind you are in your classes!” Grandfathers, the best friend a kid can have unless they also double as your parent. Ears like an elephant and eyes like a hawk, at least at selective moments like these.  


Frank drags his feet into the room, Chesire grin spreading across his face. Mikey has a flat expression aimed his way, but his grandfather has his arms crossed and that “don’t fuck with me” look he gets every time Frank even thinks about doing something he won’t approve of.  


“Sorry.” The right house slipper on his grandfather’s foot taps just once. “What, uh, what are we talking about in here now? Heard my name so…”  


“None of your beeswax.” Beeswax. Seriously? Who still says that? Frank has to bite his lip from smiling at the word. There’s an internal debate for a few brief moments of whether he wants to take advantage of making fun of the old man and risk the earlier threat or just abandon ship all together and get out relatively unscathed. Frank chooses the later. He does however, throw a glance at Mikey who’s blank expression drops into a semi frown.  


It isn’t the first time Mikey and his grandfather have had their own private conversations. Mikey has been a fixture of his household as long as he’s known him and has seemingly grown just as close to Frank’s gramps as Frank himself. It would be weird if they didn’t talk at all, but the last year or so their conversations, at least the one’s Frank’s caught parts of, seem to have taken on a more serious tone. He’s caught his name drifting back and forth more times than he can count. It’d be a massive understatement to say it was not royally aggravating.  


“Frank, I have family coming in to town. I was just telling your grandfather that I probably wouldn’t be coming over for a little while.” Mikey just blurts out. Gramps’ head swivels so fast Frank is surprised it doesn’t just pop off, or you know give him a backache from moving his spine too fast or something more normal.  


“Oh, then why was my name in there? Who is he? This guy you said something about not knowing how he’ll go about something?” The nail is hit right on the head, the scowl adorning Mikey’s face now is proof enough.  


“If only I carried a fly swatter.”  


“What?” Frank takes a step further in to the room towards them.  


“I said, ‘he’ is my…brother.” Mikey is mad, way mad. Frank almost laughs at the internal pun. There’s practically a little thundercloud starting to build over his head. Frank swears the dark circles around his eyes grow a little darker too. Touchy subject apparently.  


“Mikey was telling me that he’d rather not bring the guy around cause he’s bad news, Frank. He heard about Mikey’s friend from a relative or something and is trying to meet you.” There’s a weird, silent exchanged made between his grandfather and friend. Frank’s right eyebrow finds an all new height. “We both agreed that it would be in your best interest not to have him around.”  


The light bulb finally dings in Frank’s head.  


“Wait. Your _brother?_ The one you’ve only ever said five words to me about and they were ‘I have an older brother,’ that brother?” The storm gets darker. The room overall just seems to dim a little bit in general actually. Gramps has taken a few steps towards Frank and a few away from Mikey.  


“Frank.” Gramps grumbles at him. “It’s not nice to-“  


“No, wait. Why can’t I meet him? What’s so bad about the guy? Can’t be worse than Drill Sergeant McGee over here trying to get me to actually do my homework everyday.” That earns him a disapproving glare from both parties. Mikey looks like he’s one step away from volcanic as he marches towards Frank, stopping just a few inches short and glaring slightly downward at him.  


“You’re not meeting him Frank. Not now, not ever. He’s not coming near you and that’s that.” Who new awkward knee, twig frame Way could be so intimidating. Frank sure didn’t. He feels like he’s being towered over by a guy that only a few inches taller than himself.  


“Who died and made you boss?” The thing about Frank is, if someone tells him no he’s just going to want to do whatever it is even more. If you get up in his face, regardless of who you are, he’s going to push back. It’s how he ends up hurt more often than not. In all honesty it’s what lands him in ninety nine percent of the fights at school. It’s why he ratted out Kelly, aside from him just being a major asshole that is.  


“He’s my brother and _you’re not meeting him._ ” Mikey’s voice drops an octave, a new low Frank was unaware he could even achieve. “Drop it Frank.” With that, Mikey turns heel and leaves the room, his black coat billowing out behind him like some Dracula reject. It’s like there was a fog hanging over them all because the moment Mikey’s gone the room just seems brighter.  


“Who the fuck does he think he is deciding for me?”  


“Frank. Language. Knock it off right now.” Turning to meet his grandfather’s serious gaze, Frank throws his hands up incredulously.  


“Seriously? Since when is he my dad, huh?” There’s a look in the senior’s eyes that Frank hasn’t seen before. His face is drawn, arms crossing tightly against his chest, and he keeps glancing in the direction Mikey stormed off in. If Frank knew any better he’d say it was fear. Just as he’s about to ask the only relative left in his life what the matter is, his grandfather turns and heads towards the kitchen.  


“Food is on the table. Eat up and get some homework done for once.” Normally, his grandfather is all about the family meal. Back when Frank’s parents were still alive, they’d jokingly tell stories about how he used to heard them around until they were all properly seated and then he’d place everything down in front of them like some grand Thanksgiving, but every night. Frank recalls a story in which the old man had tried so hard to get his very pregnant, very much in labor mother to sit down and have one last dinner before they rushed off to the hospital to have little Frank. She made it to the first bowl being set on the table before her water broke and pandemonium ensued. His grandfather still managed to sneak in one last answer of the doorbell to hand out candy to a group of little kids, it was Halloween after all, before getting in the car with them.  


Right now though, his grandfather just puts the warm plate of vegan lasagna on the table before Frank is even in his seat before he retreats from the room. Frank watches as he rounds the corner towards the living room before slumping back in his chair. There’s a vibration in his pocket that he lets go for the moment until one becomes two, then three, then four until he’s angrily ripping his phone out of his pocket and dropping it down on the table in front of him.  


It’s Mikey. A myriad of messages from the younger Way apologizing for the way he acted but still insisting its better that Frank just stays far away from his older brother and that Mikey will still see him at school just not afterwards. He’ll apparently be too busy keeping the other Way occupied.  


Frank just throws back an angry “whatever” before pulling his plate towards him, scarfing down the homemade meal in record time, and throwing the dishes in the sink. As he makes way back towards the stairs, he catches the light from the television in the living room, but it’s the soft sniffles that really get his attention. Frank heads towards the sound, peering around the corner of the doorway from the hall to the living room.  


Frank’s grandfather is sitting on the couch in front of the television, which is set low in volume, clutching a big binder in his lap. The tears in his eyes draw Frank in. As he sits down beside his grandfather, startling him into hurriedly brushing away tears, he wraps an arm around the elder’s back, then leans his head on his shoulder.  


“Sorry kiddo. Just looking back at memories.” Frank smiles, then his eyes trail down to the black binder he now identifies as the family photo album that’s normally on his grandfather’s bedside table at all times. The page is open to a myriad of photos of Frank’s parents.  


There’s a photo from their wedding at the top left. Everyone is all smiles and starry eyed as the couple in the center takes their first dance. The photo directly next to it is one of his beautiful mother hugging his grandmother, both beaming at the camera. The next few photos are of his parents on a beach somewhere, the one and only time they’d apparently ever gone to one.  


There’s a few following photos of his dad playing the drums at various venues, a few with his grandfather doing the same as his grandmother watched from the side. The time jumps ahead a bit to a photo of his mom when she was about eight months along with him, his dad has a megawatt grin on his face as he stands behind her, hands placed protectively on the sides of her stomach. They don’t have very many photos of her carrying Frank other wise, it just jumps ahead to when he was born. Dozens of photos of him in varying levels of cringeworthy frilly outfits.  


“Those were your mother’s favorite things to put you in. I swear that’s why you are the complete opposite way now. She made you hate dressing up practically from the time you were born.” There’s a raw sounding note in his grandfather’s voice and a quick glance let’s Frank know that the tears have begun anew.  


They spend an hour just flipping through the photos, laughing at more than a few of Frank’s antics through the years. It’s almost a silent agreement between them to stop shortly before they get to the months before his parent’s deaths. The happy notes turn solemn as the book slams shut.  


“I won’t let anything happen to you Frankie.” It’s a weird thing to say out of the blue, but an aged hand slips over top of Frank’s then squeezes it, making him meet his grandfather’s swimming eyes.  


“Gramps, nothing’s going to happen. We’re okay, right?” Frank smiles, trying to lift his grandfather’s mood, but the older’s expression remains serious.  


“Frank? Promise me something?”  


“Okay?” The hand on top of his squeezes tighter.  


“Do _not_ go near that other Way boy, okay?” _Well, that’s way out of fucking left field._ It has seemingly nothing to do with the photo album he is sure set off these emotions, this concern in his grandfather’s voice. For a moment he thought Gramps been talking about not letting what happened to his parents happen to Frank, but this?  


“Seriously? That’s what this is about? Gramps I-“  


“Frank!” The sudden shout has him practically launching himself up off the couch, the only thing keeping him down though is the hand still clutching his. “Promise me. You stay far away from Gerard. Got it?” The hand squeezes tighter.  


“Gerard?” Frank whispers to himself, but quickly nods in agreement if only to get the older to let go of his hand cause it’s seriously starting to ache. Never underestimate the elderly. For real.  


“Good. Trust me boy, you’re far better off just not knowing him.” With that ominous note, his grandfather wobbly rises to his feet, gripping the armrest and Frank’s shoulder to steady himself. “Now, did you eat?”  


“Yessir.” Frank mock salutes, mind still whirring about this Gerard guy though. How did his grandfather even know this kid if Frank himself had never met Mikey’s brother?  


“Good boy, now go get some homework done. This old man is off to bed.” With that, his grandfather is making his way back down the hall towards the stairs, slowly ascending them. Frank listens for the tell tale creak of his bedroom door shutting before leaning forward and grabbing the remote.  


Frank spends almost half an hour flicking through the channels he’s not really even paying attention to before settling on some new movie that somehow qualifies as horror these days. He’s facing the screen, seeing the pictures but Frank’s really still thinking about this Gerard guy. What could be so bad about him that even his grandfather, who he’s still pretty sure has never met Mikey’s brother, is warning him away from him? It’s a thought that haunts him throughout the next week.  


True to his word, Mikey is there for school each and every day. Ignoring Frank’s questioning looks and just acting as if nothing ever happened in general. The moment the bell rings through, Way is out the door and disappears like a ghost before Frank can even attempt to follow him out. It just makes his curiosity grow even more.  


By Friday morning, Frank is bursting at the seems. Mikey has expertly dodged any attempted questions about his brother. Frank doesn’t know how he does it but Mikey easily diverts the topic away just as Frank is about to think he may get him to answer or he conveniently has some sort of notes to be taking or test to be studying for whilst they mill around in the lunch hall.  


To top it all off, Frank’s grandfather took a sudden vested interest in his grandson’s day to day. Almost every afternoon when he arrived back from school, he’d ben hounded about how he was feeling, what his day was like, and if Mikey was back yet. There was no questioning about his grades or reprimanding for still not having done that paper that was due a few weeks ago that Mr. Gurner keeps calling about.  


Frank has had it. He just needs to know, it has him so on edge he hasn’t showered in a few days - gross - and actually has him rolling his sleeves up, rubbing his good hand up and down the marred skin of his opposite arm. Exposing it for the entirety of first period to see.  


It’s not like it’s breaking news to anyone here what happened to the Iero kid, but he’s kept his arm carefully covered for so long now that having it suddenly back on display snatches up every wayward glance in the room. Frank’s too busy burning holes in to the back of Mikey’s head, in every class they share, to be bothered.  


By the time the final bell of the day rings, Frank’s sleeves have slipped back down in to place and his eyes actually feel sore from all the glaring they’ve done. Once more, Mikey Way has dodged everything Frank has thrown his way throughout the day. Frank thinks this is actually worse than the bullying he normally receives because at least that is to the point.  


Mikey starts packing his things to make a break for it, but Frank is more than ready. The shorter than average teen is out the classroom door, down the hall, and out the exit that they’ve always taken before Mikey even makes it down the first hall.  


Frank slips off around the corner of the building, just out of sight of the throng of teenagers pouring out of the school, but just in sight enough to see the small amount of people milling around. They’re mainly parents anxiously waiting to smother their freshman even this far in to the year, there’s a few others though too.  


After scanning the group of parents, older siblings, and grandparents standing around, Frank realizes there’s no one even remotely interesting or vaguely Mikey-like anywhere to be found. Mikey himself hasn’t even strolled out of the school yet and there’s no way it’s taking him this long to get to the doors when their last class is just a few halls away. Frank moves from his “hiding spot” and out in to the dwindling mass of students, glancing at the doors for just a second before turning and making his way down the sidewalk towards home.  


Frank could just take the bus today, it’s still sitting in its usual spot in the line up, but he can also see Nelson, his blockhead friends, and his fair haired bimbo boarding and immediately decides against it. He’ll probably be walking home from school from now on. It’s much safer that way. Why didn’t he ever think of that before? Oh, right. He _hates_ exercise.  


Rejoining the crowd of students, Frank moves past the idling, yellow monstrosities - being mindful to keep his head down as he does since Nelson is chucking something out the window at the students passing by - making it almost all the way down to the main road before he freezes. A flash of white hair lurks in the corner of his peripheral. His head whips around so fast, it takes a second for his eyes to adjust and start scanning the scattering of students. Frank’s heart is hammering against his ribcage and the hair is rising on the back of his neck.  


There isn’t anything white though, no stand out in the crowd. No student who’s just bleached their hair and unknowingly sent Frank into a mild panic. However, something else does catch his eye. Someone, a man, is passing through the small crowd of students heading down the sidewalk, in the opposite direction. He’s headed directly towards Frank.  


It’s the weirdest thing. The other teens just part around the man like he’s got a force field built up around him, or like they just have this unconscious hive mind thing telling them all to stay clear of that one. The others don’t even give the guy a glance. Frank’s frozen still for just a brief moment and gets bumped into by half a dozen students, all cursing profanities and telling him to get the hell out of the way, but this guy - he’s just waltzing right through like he’s a godamn ghost. He pretty much looks the part too.  


The guy’s skin is pale, like holy fuck get some sun pale and the stark contrast of his jet black locks, hanging down in greasy looking strands, doesn’t help either. Nothing he’s wearing is doing anything to help him look a little less pale either. The dude is clad, head to toe in black. The shirt, the well-worn, leather jacket, and -since he can’t see past mid chest- he’s going to guess the pants and shoes too, are jet fucking black. He looks like he’s walked right out of a black and white.  


The man starts to pass by Frank, but suddenly makes a weird sidestep towards the still frozen teen and brushes their shoulders against one another. An icy chill washes over Frank, making him shudder as if a winter breeze had just rushed past. The hair on the back of his neck is surely standing on end. The man just keeps on walking, making his way through the crowd back towards the school.  


Jumping out to the side of the crowd, on to the asphalt next to the sidewalk, Frank turns heel to walk briskly up along the side, following after the guy just casually strolling through. The larger collection of students finally gives way, leaving just a few stragglers heading down the walk and allowing the man to come into full frame. As he picks ups his pace, getting a little closer to the guy, Frank can make out what looks like tiny splatters of color on the guy’s jeans, which surprise, surprise are black. Paint splatters. Even the shoes have a little on them.  


The next thing Frank notices is that the guy’s face is turned just enough for him to see the edge of a smile on his thin lips, just a pull in the corner of his mouth. In fact he’s so distracted by the weird dude meandering up the sidewalk, he doesn’t see the soccer mom van barreling through the parking lot right towards where he’s unconsciously cut a corner and is now in the middle of the road. Luckily, someone else apparently caught it because he’s suddenly being shoved off to the side, nearly tripping on the curb but managing to catch himself just in time.  


Frank spins around and comes face to face with Mikey.  


“Frank! What the fuck do you think you were doing?” There’s a tight hand clutching Frank’s bad arm, fingers digging in to his skin more and more as the seconds pass.  


“I was just-“ Frank glances over his shoulder, spotting the man all too easily. Except now he’s fully facing their direction, hands in his jacket pockets and a flat expression that equally matches Mikey’s own on a normal basis. Actually, now that he’s facing Frank’s direction he looks oddly familiar.  


“Well shit, that was a close one. Wasn’t it Mikey?” The man’s voice startles Frank into finally pulling his arm out of the iron grip Mikey still had on his arm, turning to face the guy. Mikey remains unmoving where he’s at, still partially in the middle of the road. Luckily the cars seem to have all cleared out now, the coast blessedly clear of soccer mom vans. “This that friend you’ve told me all about?” The man’s shoes scuff against the concrete as he starts to approach them. A hand clamps down on Frank’s shoulder from behind.  


Frank suddenly has a hard time focusing any of his thoughts. His vision is swimming a little too. It’s a weird sensation, like he’s starting to lose consciousness.  


“Don’t you dare take another step, Gerard.” Frank can hear the snarl in Mikey’s voice, but its muddled, like its coming from some place far off or from the other side of a wall. The guy clad in black. That’s Mikey’s brother. Frank thinks before his body starts to sway a little on his feet. Every limb feels like jello as his muscles start going lax.  


“Easy Mikey, Frank’s looking a little unstable there.” Gerard grins, narrowing his eyes. Mikey’s hand releases its tight grip, slipping back to Frank’s shoulder blade just to steady him upright.  


“Falling _asleep_ is a far cry from falling _dead_ , Gerard.”  


“I dunno. Death’s pretty fun if you ask me.” Frank’s ears are picking up on the words they’re saying, but none of it is making any sort of sense through the sudden disorientation. He barely even registers being caught when his mind and body finally give out and he falls unconscious in the younger Way’s arms.  


Mikey turns his gaze from Frank’s limp form back to meet Gerard’s cold, calculating stare.  


“Pity. Would’ve been so quick and painless.” The scowl creeping across Gerard’s face grows before dissipating and quickly shifting into a grin. “Oh well, there’s always next time.” With that the older Way disappears.


	3. Chapter 3

Waking up in the quiet of his bedroom is disorienting. Frank’s body feels boneless, a gelatinous mess of organs, muscle, and tissue just floating around inside loose skin. Except his brain feels like it’s been inflated like a beach ball, then jammed back inside his head. The corners of his eyes are filled with fluid and the eyeballs themselves are practically burning from the pressure. A few blinks and watery tears streak down the sides of his face, the lids finally peeling back fully, taking in the comforting sight of a familiar ceiling. How in the world did he even get here?  


It was just moments ago that Frank had been standing in the school parking lot, Mikey’s hand gripping tight on to his arm as the beady eyes of the older Way, Gerard, stared back at him. His body had just, like, shut down or something, caved under some imaginary weight. That was just a few moments ago. He’s so sure of it yet, but suddenly Frank’s here, in his own bedroom. There’s no light creeping across the corners of the ceiling from the gap at the top of the dark, grey blackout curtains, and last he recalls the sun should still be up. It is still early afternoon after all, isn’t it?  


“You’ve been out for a while.” The bones miraculously return to their host and Frank is shooting upright despite the pounding headache the pressure inside his is giving him. It’s hard to focus with his brain beating out a drum against his skull and making more tears eyes rush down already soaked cheeks from the intensity of the beat, but he finally locks on to a particularly dark shadow in the corner of his room. The same corner where he’s pretty sure his desk normally is, yet can barely make out. It’s eery and the fine hairs on his neck start to prickle, only to flop right back down when he catches the glint of a pair of glasses and a familiar figure rises up out of the dark. The shadow seems to recede, oddly enough, and the desk slowly starts to come back in to focus behind the figure.  


“Fuck, Mikey. Way to give a guy a heart attack.” Frank swings his legs to the side of the bed, dangling them off the edge as he lets his body relax.  


“Are you okay?” Mikey’s voice sounds weird, deeper, a little hollow. Frank spares a glance back over to the corner where Mikey’s shadowy outline stands tall.  


“Uh, yeah? Are you?” There’s a sudden, piercing light filling the room and Frank’s eyes squeeze shut, staring at the glow from behind closed lids until he can slowly pry them open again and let them adjust. With the lamp on his desk now lit, the room is bathed in a orangey-yellow glow. The long back of Mikey’s trench is facing him, hugging the curve of his spine as he leans over the desk, hand still clinging to the little pull chain on the lamp. Frank can barely make out the reflection of his face in black face of the computer screen.  


Mirror Mikey’s head is lowered, lips pressed tight together. The circles around his eyes would make Tim Burton green with envy. His friend looks, for lack of a better word, tired past the point of exhaustion. The kind where one is both wide awake and on the verge of complete collapse simultaneously. Knowing Mikey, there’s also probably a metric ton of coffee involved in there somewhere. Frank notices for a moment that Mikey is sans glasses in his reflection. Which is odd considering he swore he’d seen the glint of them in the dark. His eyes flick to Mikey’s ears, searching for the ends of the frames resting gently over top of them and wait a second they’re still th-  


“Frank. Are you okay?” Mikey straightens up, turning to meet Frank’s eyes, startling him from his thoughts, so much so he doesn’t register the fact that Mikey’s glasses are right there, perched perfectly on his nose.  


“You already asked me that. I’m good. Why wouldn’t I be?” Yeah, sure he did almost get hit by a soccer mom earlier, but he’s fine right? No need for this brooding or whatever Mikey’s doing over there. Boots scuff against the floor, thumping loudly as Mikey makes his way to the bed, plopping down on to the end of it. There’s a few moments of awkward silence where Mikey just stares at Frank, eyes flicking over his person as if he’s actually assessing him for any damage. “Dude, I’m fine. Seriously.”  


Mikey’s eyes move down to his own lap, where his hands are locked together. There’s a slight tremble that runs over Mikey’s body and a flicker of what looks like shame that Frank is just barely able to catch before he’s completely poker-faced once again.  


“Mikey are you-“ Frank’s cut off by the other shooting up on to his feet and starting to fumble to gather his things which have apparently been tossed haphazardly in to a pile alongside Frank’s own backpack and scattering of books.  


“I’ve actually got to go. I’ll see you on Monday. Remember you’ve gotta get that paper done, Frank, or you’ll be living with Gurner for another year.” Long fingers find the strap of a backpack and give it a nice yank up out of the pile before it’s shouldered. Mikey is a quiet tornado as he moves about the room, adjusting things and returning pencils, pens, and sheets of past due homework to their places on Frank’s desk.  


“Mikey.” Frank calls from where he’s perched on the bed. Mikey’s avoiding eye contact and he knows it, he knows that Frank knows it, but he can’t help it. There’s shame burning in his chest alongside a bundle of fear. Gerard showing up at the school had been a grievous oversight on his part. Never did he think his brother would make an appearance so soon. Gerard likes to preach and say he’s going to do things, but Mikey knows there’s always some sort of plan, some idea that has to ruminate for a little while inside his brother’s head before he makes an actual decision. The older Way just showing up was so far from normal.  


Mikey wasn’t ready for it, wasn’t even a tad prepared. He thought he’d headed him off enough to keep him away from Frank for the duration of yet another visit. Something’s different this time and it’s chewing away at Mikey’s insides. He’d nearly gotten what he wanted today. Mikey was almost too slow. Gerard nearly won and Frank had almost paid the price. An unforgivable error on his part. Luckily, Frank seems completely oblivious to the fact that death was only a hair’s breadth away from him today. Maybe that was just the after effect of being rendered unconscious just moments later. Hazel eyes flick down to the long fingers of the hand not currently clutching the backpack strap slung across Mikey’s shoulder.  


Mikey hates his hands. Contact like that had never been part of the plan either. Sure, brushing skin against skin in the form of pushing on a shoulder to get someone moving down the hall or shaking a hand was harmless enough. Holding on to someone was dangerous. He knows that. How could he be so stupid? So, so _reckless_ and with Frank of all people!  


“Mikey!” Mikey’s eyes refocus, shifting around until they find Frank with his arms crossed, blocking the door, and they finally make eye contact. Mikey huffs, redirecting his line of sight back to the old wooden floor beneath his feet and makes for the door, trying to push past Frank without actually coming into contact with him, using the backpack as a buffer. He won’t do it again, he won’t put Frank through that ever again. The short little asshole though is hellbent on blocking the door.  


“Come on Frank. I’ve got to head home and work on my own paper.”  


“No, you’re evading. I’m not stupid, Mikey. Now sit your ass down and tell me what’s got your panties in a twist.” Frank’s not usually the one to have to force somebody to talk to him. Normally it’s everyone else trying to get him to open up, to just say something about anything important rather than his usual blather. There’s all of two people who are ever subjected to his blather though so really “everyone” is Mikey and his grandfather. It’s oddly empowering. Suddenly there’s an understanding as to why people like making others open up when they don’t want to. It’s a rush. He hates it. This is how Mikey must feel when he gets Frank to spill and it’s even more annoying now. Frank promises to himself to use this new power for absolute evil in retaliation against all the times Mikey’s made him spill the beans. Starting now.  


“Frank, everything is fine. Okay? I just need to go.” Mikey makes for the door again, trying to edge around his cross-armed friend. Frank just presses harder against the door though, planting his feet firmly on the wood floor. “Frank-“  


“Nope. If I have to endure you bitching at me about ‘opening up’ every time I don’t want to talk, then you’re going to have to deal with the same shit. Capiche?” Mikey’s eyes narrow, hands clenching at his sides, one rising up so he can pinch the bridge of his nose and squeeze his eyes shut, before he suddenly pinwheels and heads back towards the desk. Mikey’s bag drops unceremoniously to the floor and he flops down in the chair. His composure is uncharacteristically absent for a moment before he’s rearranging himself in the chair, straightening out his back and fixing Frank with a glare that could send anyone packing. Anyone but Frank that is. He’s a stubborn asshole if he does say so himself.  


After a few moments of making sure Mikey’s ass is going to stay planted in that chair and he won’t make a break for the door, Frank finally pushes away from it, taking a few steps forward with arms crossed and fixing the same glare right back at his friend. A slender eyebrow slowly raises until Mikey breaks the glare.  


“I’m fine, Frank. I’m-“  


“I’ll break your nose, motherfucker.” Mikey’s mask cracks just a little with the corner of his mouth quirking up just slightly on one side. “Squawk.”  


“Squawk?” That slender eyebrow just raises a little higher, accompanied by the tapping of Frank’s left foot. “Fine, Frank. It’s my brother, okay? I am just-” _ticked off to all fucking hell that he even dared get that close, that he even tried to_ \- “angry.”  


“Care to elaborate as to why you’re so peeved at your brother?” There’s a thud as Frank drops down to his ass, sitting criss-cross on the floor still between Mikey and the door.  


“No, there’s nothing I care to elaborate on. I just don’t want him anywhere near my friends-“  


“ _Friend._ ” Frank corrects, smirking a little as he does. His arms slip down to his lap, resting his palms on his knees in a more relaxed pose. Mikey lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Sorry dude, but let’s be honest. We’re the only friends we’ve got.” At that, they’re both snorting in agreement, breaking the tension in the air.  


“True enough, Frank.”  


“Anyone ever tell you that you talk like an old man? _‘True enough, Frank.’_ Do I need to start looking into some old folk’s homes?” Mikey’s eyes crinkle, then he slouches a little in the seat, letting the stiffness he usually carries drain away just a little. Most people would just let the air remain calm, to let the heat from before just fizzle away and let it go for the day. Frank, the nosy little shit he is, can’t help but bring it right back up again. “So, you hate your brother. What’d he do? Is he a criminal, did he rob a bank or slit someone’s throat or something?”  


“Jesus, Frank. No! Gerard’s not. He’s not-“ Mikey wants so badly to say Gerard is not a bad guy, the want is clawing at his throat because Gerard was, in fact, a good brother at one point in time. Always there for Mikey when he needed him. Loyal to a fault. Then things changed, spiraled out of control, and he became loyal to another cause, they both did. At least, until Mikey found himself again and realized what they were doing wasn’t right. What they had to do was wrong on so many levels and Gerard didn’t care. Doesn’t care to this day. No matter who pays the price.  


“He’s not what?” Frank’s got his eyes locked on tight when Mikey looks over at the shorter teen sitting criss-cross on the floor in front of him.  


“Gerard just does things that I want no part in. That’s it.”  


“Like drugs or something? He a dealer?” Mikey just shoots him another look that is just begging him to shut the hell up. “What? I’m just trying to understand why you don’t want the guy around me?”  


“Because he’s a bad person and I don’t want him around my friends. Isn’t that simple enough, Frank?” The room goes quiet following Mikey’s shout, and it’s a few moments more before there’s the sound of shuffling once again and Mikey is grabbing his things, sidestepping around Frank and heading out the door. There was no thump of shoes against the stairs nor thud from the front door closing when his friend had left, but Mikey is light on his feet anyways. He’s apparently mastered the art of being a ninja in his spare time.  


Frank gets up and heads to the window, glancing down to watch his friend head out across the front lawn, but he never sees him. It’s a bit dark out there after all, he could’ve gone the other way around this time. As far as Frank knows Mikey lives just a few blocks away in a neighborhood that seems to run in circles. He’s never seen the other’s house even in passing and if he had, then Mikey never pointed it out as his. The guy is strange, getting stranger, and apparently has raging familial issues.  


Frank can’t help his curiosity. What did Gerard do to piss off Mikey so much? What was so bad that someone’s younger brother wanted nothing to do with them? Calloused fingers tap against the denim covering his thigh as he stares out in to the dark.  


“Frank, dinner!"

***

“Chaos. The answer is chaos.” Hands clap, the sound reverberates around the room but falls on deaf ears. After all, it’s history. Greek and Roman history specifically as of late and the entire class is dead. Eyelids are heavy all around and some students, Frank, are even slumped completely down against their desk. “Come one people! Wake up! You have midterms coming up and several of you-” A hand slaps down against the desk mere centimeters away, sending Frank’s heart racing as he launches backwards in his seat. “Frank! Sit up!” Mr. McDonald is on the freaking war path lately. Fucking hell. “You should be paying attention to this a little more than the others don’t you think?” The middle aged man squints his eyes and grumbles under his breath before continuing his loop around the classroom, confiscating phones and slapping down new homework assignments on each desk.  


The balding man keeps shooting withering glances over at Frank, like he’s just so particularly disappointed in this one student in general. Frank knows he’s not the only one who has fallen behind, but man does he have a target on his back lately. Gurner’s always been right up his ass and ready to mock him for his failures, but now McDonald too?  


There’s no way it’s even remotely possible for Frank to save his grades with midterms right around the corner, but every single teacher, except Gurner, likes to taunt him about it like he’s got a shot or something. He’d much rather just lay his head back down and sleep the day away, fuck you very much.  


“Iero!” McDonald’s right back at his desk just as Frank’s body starts to slouch. “See me after class please.” From across the aisle Frank can see Mikey roll his eyes then return to the sheets of paper in front of him, pencil scratching against the page as he fills in answers like the good little nerd he is. Fuck Mikey. Dude has been weirder the last few weeks than ever.  


Since his brother made that one little show of popping up at the school it’s like Mikey’s paranoia has been ramped up to eleven. The guy is practically glued to Frank’s back at every turn. He even walks with Frank to classes that he doesn’t share before heading off to his own. Frank honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even go to his other classes because, without fail, Mikey was right there waiting when Frank slipped out of English this morning just like every morning for almost a month now.  


The bell shrills, signifying the end of class. The other students fly out of their seats in a frenzy typical for the last class before lunch hour and quickly vacate the room. Mikey has packed up his belongings, but remains seated as Mr. McDonald makes his way over towards Frank, perching himself up on the desk in front of him.  


“Mr. Way. You can wait outside for your friend.” Mikey purses his lips and narrows his eyes, flicking between the two of them for a moment before McDonald clears his throat. Frank’s avoiding eye contact from both of them completely, instead focusing his attention on his own hand rubbing up and down the sleeve covered skin of his bad arm.  


“I’ll see you outside, Frank.” Mikey slips out of his seat, not waiting for any hint that the other had heard him and makes his way out the door, which shuts with a resounding thud.  


“Frank.” McDonald’s voice is a weird mix between clear and gravelly. It’s not quite like a smoker’s voice, but shows the signs that it’s heading that direction. The collared t-shirt and dark wash jeans absolutely reek of cigarettes to probe it. It’s almost comforting, actually. The smell was not unfamiliar in the Iero household before everything happened. It makes Frank’s fingers twitch a little. He’d always been eager to try one, just take a drag and see how it feels, pretty sure he’s already tainted by the effects of second hand smoke regardless so why not just go for the whole shebang anyways. It’s tempting.  


Frank’s so zoned out, thinking about what it would be like to finally get his hands on a pack of cigarettes and trying to decide just how he’d go about masking the smell around his grandfather when fingers snap together suddenly, disturbing his thoughts. Apparently McDonald had been talking to him this whole time and only just now realized it was going in one ear and out the other.  


“Frank. This is important for your academic career! You’re falling behind in all of your classes and all of your teachers are concerned.”  


“Gurner’s concerned?” Frank blurts out without really thinking. His face flushes, expecting a sharp reprimand from Gurner’s colleague, but instead Frank hears a soft chuckle escape from between McDonald’s lips.  


“Mr. Gurner is an asshole.” Frank nearly falls out of his chair from the absolute shock. Absolutely the last thing he’d thought would come out of the man’s mouth. It must be a trick. It has to be a trick, right? Should he agree or feign indifference? Screw indifference.  


“Holy shit, yeah he is.” Finally, Frank looks up to meet his teacher’s eyes and he can see the smirk on the other’s face. It’s the kindest expression he’s ever seen cross the history buff’s features and he can’t help the smile he sends back in return.  


“Be that as it may though, he’s still your teacher. As unfortunate as that is. Seems to be a bit focused on you specifically lately in our discussions. Sounds like you either royally pissed him off because you just don’t seem to care or you royally pissed him off because he can’t seem to figure you out.”  


“There’s nothing to figure out, teach. Got a one way street to failure ahead of me and I just might as well accept it now rather than be disappointed later.” The smile slips from McDonald’s face at that exact moment and he shifts his position, sliding down in to the chair in front of Frank to be eye level with him.  


“You are not a failure, Frank.” Frank sits back and starts to roll his eyes preemptively, waiting for the whole ‘you’ve got a great life ahead of you’ speech he’s heard a million times. McDonald holds a hand up in the universal sign to let him finish. “Maybe academia isn’t the path set out for you. For a lot of people it isn’t.” Well, that’s another tick on the “not at all what Frank was expecting” board. Suddenly, he finds himself leaning forwards again, curious as to where McDonald is going with this.  


“Maybe you have another path set out for you. Predestined or not, maybe it’s there and it’s just waiting for you to be ready. It could, however, also be the wrong path. You see, most people think there’s just one straight line they’re stuck traveling. Like they have to follow it specifically and they have no other choice in the matter.” McDonald leans back against the desk, crossing his arms. “Gurner is such a man. Thinks that you’re doomed to some fate he seems oddly set on happening.”  


“Failure and perpetual loneliness? I’m going to die sad and alone. Aww, he does care.” McDonald shakes his head as Frank pulls one leg up, getting more comfortable. Shit-eating grin settling on his face for just a moment.  


“No, he’s set on something… _worse._ ” The tiny little hairs on the back of Frank’s neck start to rise, a small shiver running down his spine simultaneously, the grin flipping right upside down. Frank gets the feeling he knows exactly where he thinks Gurner’s mind is at regarding his future. Dead in a ditch somewhere sounds about right. “He’s a whack-job, Frank. Don’t pay him any mind. The guy has no say on what your future entails. Except of course when it comes to your coursework. That is still under his control for now. Seems hellbent on failing you, y’know?”  


“That’s a massive understatement Mr. McDonald.” Frank finds himself absolutely fascinated with the sudden turn around from grumpy History teacher to somewhat of a relaxed guy just with the absence of other students.  


“What? The cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs part or the utter annihilation of your GPA he’s striving for?” McDonald stands up, shoving his hands in to his pockets. The guy doesn’t look as old as he did a few moments ago, Frank realizes. Maybe he was just looking through the lens of a typical failing student versus pressuring teacher relationship. He doesn’t look aging at all. There’s no grey hairs yet, just dirty blonde hair swooped off to one side and a surprising lack of any deep-set wrinkles either. What made him seem old before, Frank now notices, are his eyes. They look weary even without all the regular signs of age surrounding them. He imagines they’re the same haunted eyes a soldier would get on a battlefield.  


“I’m pretty sure I’m doing a good job of annihilating my GPA on my own.”  


“I won’t deny that you’ve definitely been giving it your all. Listen, Frank. I know I’ve been a hardass lately. It’s not my intention to specifically target anyone in particular, but I’m genuinely concerned for your lack of, well, concern. Besides if I reveal that I’m actually a softie at heart, then imagine the chaos that would follow!” For a moment, the two just sit there and exchange a moment of soft smiles, Frank taking a moment to just acknowledge what has been said.  


“I mean, naps would surely be a lot easier if you weren’t.” The statement elicits an eye roll to end all eye rolls from Mr. McDonald before they both start to laugh only to be interrupted by a sharp rapping of knuckles on the door. As it creaks open, Frank recognizes the annoying tin of Mr. Gurner’s voice as it calls out in to the room.  


“Mr. McDonald, I’d like to have a word if-“ Gurner freezes as he enters the room, letting the door start to slam behind him until its caught on the edge by a hand with long fingers. Mikey’s face peeks around the corner, before he pushes his way in past Gurner, coming to stand beside Frank’s desk between him and the science teacher.  


“Ah, Mr. Iero. What a coincidence. Since you’re here-“ Gurner’s eyes flit from person to person before landing on, oddly enough, Mikey. Even though Frank is clearly the one he’s addressing. There’s some sort of weird exchange made between the two of them. Mikey’s slender backside is all he can see, but the clench of his hands at his side is enough to know it’s not friendly. The tension that rises between Straight A’s and Whack-Job is palpable almost every day as Gurner tries to hold him at the end of science longer and longer.  


“That will be all today, Frank.” The desk behind Mr. McDonald jumps on its legs as the teacher pushes back in the chair, bumping his back in to it. McDonald takes a few steps forward, hands sliding in to his pockets and effectively blocking Frank’s view of Gurner where he’s still seated.  


“Now wait just a second, we need to discuss this man’s complete lack of-“  


“Mikey, would you please?” Suddenly, Mikey is turning around and collecting Frank’s things for him, grabbing him by his shirt sleeve and practically manhandling him right out the door. Only pausing for a moment to gather his own abandoned backpack leaning up against the wall in the hallway.  


Frank can hear shouting start up behind them just as the door thumps to a close and he can’t help but wonder what the hell that was all about.

***  


_“Gerard.”_ Mikey can’t help but grumble under his breath as he pulls Frank along down the hallway. There’s this weird trail of energy lingering in the air as Mikey turns a few corners, ignoring the hands batting at his in an effort to get him to release the cotton sleeve firmly in his grasp.  


“Mikey! What the fuck, man! I can walk on my own.” Frank’s snapping, but Mikey just tunes him out. Gerard is here somewhere he just knows it. He has to get Frank out of here, has to get him somewhere far away from this hallway, far away from this wash of energy he’s feeling. Just far, far away from wherever his brother is. How dare he be so bold as to waltz in here and get so close. _Really pushing my limits, big brother._ There’s a sudden, sharp flair in the nerves of his hand, a warning that something is messing with him and he glances back to see Frank has dug his fingernails in to the skin on his hand as he tries to rake it off.  


“Stop that, Frank. Just trust me okay? Come on.” Mikey looks back ahead, making another left and finding the stairs down to the first level of the school and starts dragging Frank down the steps, both sets of feet tapping away at the plastic coated metal.  


“Will you let go of me? Jesus, I will fucking follow you, but I can walk on my own dammit.” Frank growls and Mikey finally relinquishes his grasp, continuing on the steps and just glancing back over his shoulder to make sure the other really is still following. “What the hell is up with you? What was that back there?” Frank’s breath is labored, trying to keep up with the longer-legged Way as they hit the bottom of the stairs and Mikey stops for just a moment, making Frank step in front of him.  


“Let’s just get to lunch, Frank. We’ve already missed a good chunk of it.” Frank stops on his heels and swivels around to come face to face with him.  


“Lunch? Seriously, who cares? Tell me what’s going on? You and McDonald walled me and herded me out like…like…I don’t even know! What was that all about? Then you’re dragging me down the hall like a dog on a leash. What’s up with that?” Frank’s asking too many questions that Mikey doesn’t even care to answer right now. His mind is focused on the flow of energy in the room, feeling out for any tell-tale signs of his brother. “Mikey! Hello! Earth to…oh.” Frank’s sudden change in cadence snaps Mikey’s focus back to the shorter teen. His friend’s eyes are focusing on something over Mikey’s shoulder. Following his gaze, he spins on his heel and comes face to face with Gerard.  


“Mikey. There you are. Been looking for you all day, little brother.” Gerard’s eyes glint in the fluorescent lighting. There’s a grin creeping across his expression, tiny, sharp, teeth slowly making themselves visible. The air seems to drop just a few degrees as the brothers stare each other down, completely oblivious to the third party watching their exchange. At least for a moment, before Frank clears his throat and Gerard’s focus shifts to him. “Oh, Frank. So nice to see you again.” Gerard makes to sidestep around Mikey, but is caught on the arm by the younger Way. Mikey’s grip tightening down hard against it.  


“Hey, Gerard. What’re you doing here?” Frank’s taking a step forwards towards Mikey’s brother and in a swift shuffle of feet he plants himself firmly between Gerard and Frank once more.  


“He’s leaving.” Gerard flicks his gaze back to Mikey, the grin starting to widen.  


“Come on, Mikes. Introduce me to your friend properly.” The grip on Gerard’s arm tightens, threatening to snap the bones just underneath it. As it is, there’s a little feather of something creeping in to Gerard’s veins. A twinge of pain that only serves to egg him on.  


“Gerard. Back off.” Mikey starts to feel his arm go numb, a creeping wash up the limb rendering his grip weaker and weaker by the moment, but he fights it, meeting it with an equal amount and pushes the feeling back down to just his hand. The skin over his fingers is looking a bit sallow when he glances down, the bones a little more prominent. A little, skeletal. Mikey releases his grip, breaking the contact with a small shockwave passing between the two. Gerard’s moved in a flash. Mikey quickly shoves his hand into his coat pocket before spinning around and grabbing Frank’s shoulder with his other, attempting to get him going, but Frank just slaps it and side steps. Right next to Gerard.  


“Who the hell pissed in your Cheerios today, Mikey?” Frank growls, adjusting the straps of his backpack and furrowing his brows. _Gerard’s too close. Too close._ The mantra repeats in Mikey’s head.  


“Frank-“  


“No, back off Mikey! You’re being super fucking weird and controlling lately and I don’t fucking appreciate it. I get it, you hate your brother or what the fuck ever and clearly there's something Gurner's pissed off at you for too, but leave me out of your bullshit. I don’t need you to fucking save me.” Frank turns and starts heading down the hall, throwing his voice back over his shoulder only to shout a goodbye to Gerard of all people, who just stands there, sliding his hands in his pockets and grinning after him.  


“Aww, hear that Mikes? He doesn't need you to _save him_. I like him.” Gerard turns to Mikey.  


“He doesn't know what I'm saving him from. Now, _leave._ ” Mikey growls, moving to follow after Frank, make sure Gerard stays far away.  


“Nah, ah, ah. We need to have a chat.” A hand snatches the collar of his coat, yanks him backwards, and suddenly the world is shifting around him. _Fuck._  


Frank walks a few more steps down the hall before glancing back behind him, only to find it empty. No Gerard, no Mikey. Completely vacant. It’s strange considering this particular hall has no classrooms off of it, only lockers lining the walls between the stairs and the cafeteria entrance. It’s odd, but Frank brushes it off. They’re taller than him, Mikey albeit a bit more so than Gerard, but the stairs weren’t that far back. Mikey probably herded his brother up them like the sheepdog he’s been lately.  


Frank’s rubbing at his bad arm as he makes his way down the steps and in to the cafeteria. A weird sense of foreboding rushing over him. Briefly his mind tells him to just go home, ditch school, and just get to safety, but that’s stupid. It’s school. The teachers can be assholes, there’s no doubt jocks just waiting to pelt him with rancid cafeteria food any moment now, and there’s no one lining up to be friends with Frank Iero anytime soon, but that's typical. _That’s high school._  


With that, Frank makes his way down the few steps from the hall to cafeteria door, nearly reaching the bottom before his foot hits something slippery and the next thing he knows he’s going face down into darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just seems shitty to me and I could not get it down at all. With everything happening in the world right now, it is so terribly hard to get my brain to focus on what I want to write. There's probably typos and things I'll tweak later, but I just wanted to put something, ANYTHING, out there in hopes it would distract me from the madness for a little while. 
> 
> I'm still working, we've had our days off cut except for the one day a week we are closed and we're busier than ever and it has been absolutely crazy dealing with that physically AND the mental toll on my mind from everything else.
> 
> Stay safe. Stay creative. Hopefully I can drag myself out of the funk I'm in soon.

“Next time kiddo, let’s try not to break your face.” Gramps says jovially, slapping Frank’s shoulder as he escorts his grandson and his newly bandaged head out of the hospital. Frank doesn’t quite remember the events that took place shortly after introducing his face to the school’s linoleum floor. All he remembers is waking up strapped down to a gurney, flying down the halls of the hospital, and watching the ceiling lights with fuzzy vision, ringing ears, and severe cotton mouth as the doctor’s rushed him in shouting incoherent nonsense. Only later would he learn that he’d split his head open and was gushing out blood all over until, surprise, surprise, Nelson and his goons of all people found him lying there. At least he had a cool linear fracture and a row of stitches to add to his collection.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re just jealous of the badass scar I’m going to have.” Frank’s wearing sunglasses as they make the trek out to his gramp’s ninety-three Cadillac, but it’s still far too bright for his head. Finding himself walking with his eyes nearly shut, has him clamping his hand down on the elder’s shoulder and letting him guide him the rest of the way. The actual pain has gone away, but the subsequent headaches are ever present. 

“Your hair already covers it Frank, no one’s going to even see it unless you shave it all off or go bald."

“Such a buzzkill.” Gramps chuckles a bit as he helps Frank in to the car, shutting the door and then trundling around to the other side and lowering himself in. The radio is, for once, turned off and the silence is actually completely blissful. It won’t last forever. Frank will get antsy for his tunes at some point and the loving grandfather will willingly oblige, albeit the volume will remain low for now.

“Let’s get you home, kid. Get you tucked in to bed and I can whip us up some dinner.” Frank is silent in the passenger seat, a quick glance over shows him that he’s already sound asleep. There’s a jolt of fear that rushes through the elderly’s body for just a brief moment, a gut reaction after having had to spend the first day making sure Frank stayed awake for certain bouts of time, whilst keeping a weather eye out for anything potentially nefarious. Now, though, the boy can sleep and that’s just what he’ll let him do for as long as he wants.

***

“Mr. Gurner.” The whiteboard marker in the scraggly, science teacher’s hand clatters to the floor, disturbing the peace and quiet that normally pervades the start of a school day. If a mirror were present, he’s sure that the sheet white man reflected back at him, wearing his face would scare the shit out of him. That is, if it weren’t for the other presence no doubt just steps behind him. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” Gurner’s heart vacates his chest, free falls right in to his gut where it threatens to burst out, hammering away as his adrenaline levels skyrocket past Mars. 

“N-no s-sir, n-nothing’s f-final-lized y-yet.” The tinny tone of Gurner’s voice reaches new heights, rivaling that of a four year old girl in full on temper tantrum, scream queen mode. The stutter that haunted him throughout his lonely childhood comes raring back, legs raised like a spider ready to strike. Cold air washes over him, creeping like a fog all around until it envelops both the man seconds away from vacating his bowels all over the linoleum floor and the room itself. Oh look, there’s his breath lingering in front of him. Movement from somewhere behind him has his boxers feeling suspiciously damper than a millisecond ago. There’s the tapping of shoes, a shuffling of papers, then the loud screeching drag of chair legs against the floor. Each high pitched shriek ringing out louder than the last until it suddenly stops. Silence is now the enemy. 

Minutes tick by, the only break in the quiet is Gurner’s own breathing, each puff of air leaving his throat as a fog. The teacher’s limbs are shaking, there’s sweat trickling down his back underneath his baby blue button down. The sudden sigh has him flinching, his muscles locking up and sending him flailing against the whiteboard, nail scrabbling for purchase. There’s a snort of amusement and then the sound of someone sitting. The tell tale soft thump of their body dropping into the chair and the rustle of fabric against fabric as they cross their legs and get comfortable. 

“Now, now Gurner. There’s no need to fret. Not just yet at least. Would you turn around please?” The teacher feels like one of those feigning goats right about now with his limbs locking up and trapping him on the spot. Physically turning himself around is a challenge his body just doesn’t seem to even want to take on. His brain is screaming out in agreement, but there’s that niggling little voice still whispering through that if he doesn’t do what he’s told, he might as well prepare to let his body lie. 

Gurner struggles to shift just one foot, then the other before he slowly forces himself to face the room. His eyes wheel around, looking anywhere, but straight forward, trying desperately to avoid any kind of eye contact with the being seated in front of him.

“That’s better. As you know, our first time frame is starting to narrow down. The next window won’t open for another seven years and our little roadblock needs to be removed from the equation. Have you found a way to restrain him yet or not?” The chair squeals as it shifts and, yeah, that’s definitely piss running down his leg now. The tapping of shoes gets closer and the air turns to ice, the whiteboard literally crackling as frost starts to coat its surface, the wetness of his pant leg freezing nearly solid almost just as fast. If he weren’t able to see the vague outline of the person as his eyes still look anywhere but head on, he’d think the figure had moved with the way it feels like someone’s breathing down his neck.

“I-I a-almost f-f-found wh-what we n-need. J-just a f-f-few more ing-ingre-ingredients.” Another shift. Now the other is in front of him, directly. The room is blocked out except for ninety degrees to either side, his eyes are locked on now though. There’s no turning away.

“How long, Gurner?” A pale hand rests against the whiteboard mere inches from Gurner’s head. Pale is a terrible adjective, he thinks briefly. The skin covering the thin looking limb is downright ghostly, almost blending in perfectly with the surface it’s resting against. In such stark contrast to the pitch black sleeve that ends just a hair above the wrist. There’s icy blue veins visible just under the surface, threading their way up the arm like spiderwebs and Gurner’s sure if he actually took the time to look closely, he could probably see straight through to the bones, the skin and muscles are just so oddly translucent.

“A f-few m-m-m-“ Cold digits slide up the side of his neck, before curling around the front, gentle pressure turning into a vice grip that’s sure to leave bruises. Maybe even frostbite with how glacial they feel.

“Spit. It. Out.” The being growls behind him, the voice isn’t deep by any means, but there’s an echo to it that’s entirely unnatural, like it’s swirling from all around the room. Gurner’s hand are now press hard against the whiteboard, his back trying to fuse itself against it, hopefully even right in to it just to escape the man in front of him.

“A f-few months! G-Graduation! I’ll be ready!” The room suddenly ignites, the temperature skyrockets back up to normal so quickly it has his head spinning and the death grip on his neck is gone. Gurner is too afraid to turn around even still, even with the other presence now absent. The clock is ticking, it needn’t be said. Gurner gave his answer. If he hasn’t done his part by high school graduation, it’s over. For him, at least. 

***

“Nice shades Iero!” Shoulder bump. It’s still too bright, the headaches still come and go. _Come on Mikey, where are you?_

“Aww, he thinks he’s so fucking cool!” Punch to the stomach. _Any minute now, you asshole. All worried about protecting my ass from your brother, but holy fuck don’t actually be here when I need you._ Uncreative dickheads must’ve gotten all their jeers from marathoning those high school drama shows they’ll never admit to watching while having their mother’s dote on their every whim and still call them their “little man." Just another day in fucking paradise.

“We should remind him just how much of a loser he is, then!” Shove backwards against the wall, where his already aching cranium smacks against the tile. Frank’s vision whites out for a split second, long enough to miss how he ends up slumped down on the floor against the cold, tile. Fucking backwards ass, small town and all the fuckwits who attend West-motherfucking-Milford High. _Where the fuck are you Way?_

“Now, now boys. I think Iero has given himself enough brain damage for one week. Let’s just hold off for a little while, let him recover.” Trumb must have some kind of a radar out for when Frank’s getting shoved around. He’s always there right at the end, ready to herd his little sheep away before anyone with more authority comes to convict them. Frank somehow manages to heave himself back up to his feet against the wall, staggering for a moment, marred right hand pressing briefly against his sore head, barely two days free of stitches. 

“Recover? Recover what, a brain?” One of Nelson’s goons chortles as he’s herded off. The one, Frank believes, who got threatened with a failing grade not long ago by Mr. McDonald. Frank snorts, turns to head down the hall and nearly collapses just a few steps in, but as if he were directly summoned by Frank’s mind, McDonald is right there to catch him by the elbow and heave him back upright. 

Lockers lining the walls and throngs of students bustling down the hall all blur in the background behind a slightly fuzzy edged image of his history teacher, who is mouthing something at Frank. Suddenly his body is lurching forwards and his feet are tripping over one another as his bad arm is gripped tight and yanked forwards by the blurry image of someone who’s hopefully still Mr. McDonald. When the metal door to the room slams shut behind them, his brain feels like it’s going to explode. The sound feels like it’s right there between his ears, banging a kick drum against the inside of his skull. _Holy fuck._

Frank’s vaguely aware of his butt being planted down in a chair, the feel of his own fingers sliding up to cover his ears and hold his head on, cause that shit feels like it’s going to come off. It takes a few moments more of this weird incoherency before the world slowly comes back in to sharp focus. McDonald’s blurry form hardens and Frank can finally lock his eyes on to him. The teacher’s eyes are wide, nostrils flaring, hand outstretched in preparation to steady his student in case he decides to keel over or anything.

“‘m fine, kay?” Talking is a bad idea. _Talking is baaaaad._ Talking hurts, talking threatens to bring back the ringing in Frank’s ears. 

“Sit here for a bit.” The words filter through just barely as the teacher starts to raise from where he’s been crouched down. Following the movement makes Frank’s stomach want to roll and so he quickly casts his gaze back down at the floor. “This is my free period, you were headed to lunch anyways, so just sit and screw your head back on straight.” McDonald, blessedly stops talking then and makes his way back over to his desk. Frank can still feel his eyes on him though, watching him like a hawk. 

It’s about fifteen minutes before Frank can even lift his head up out of his hands without feeling like he’s going to spiral down again. Head injuries are no joke, seriously. 

“You alright?” Testing the limits of his head, Frank slowly rolls it to the side, so he can take in the only other person in the room. There’s a set of glasses, reflecting the bright white light of the computer monitor, perched on the end of the man’s nose, the frame pinched between two fingers. It reminds him of last week when Mikey was seated at his desk, his own glasses reflecting the light like some creepy anime character hidden in the dark. Was that last week, or was it the week before now? How many days has it been since he’s seen Mikey?

“Two weeks.” Apparently, Frank had voiced the last thought aloud. Frank’s whips his head like an idiot to meet McDonald’s gaze. It pounds for just a few seconds before settling once more.

“Two weeks?” The cadence of his voice shoots up a few octaves in disbelief. _There’s no way it’s been two weeks since I've seen Mikey._ The very notion just sounds utterly absurd. In absolutely no way, shape, or form can it have been two weeks already. Tight set lips and a furrowed brow coming to pass across his English teacher’s face say other wise.

“He hasn’t been in school for two weeks, Frank. Surely you are aware of how long it’s been since you hit your head? Thing is though, Frank wasn’t aware. It’s hitting him here and now just how much time has passed and he can’t wrap his brain around the idea. It’s as if fourteen days of his life have just gone up in smoke and he’s just now waking up. 

Frank remembers the few days he spent in the hospital, then leaving the hospital and getting in his grandfather’s car to head home. Vaguely, he recalls resting in his own bed for a few days so that would account for about a week, but where had the other days gone? The last week is just one massive blur.

“Frank?” McDonald’s voice is much closer now, startlingly so. Somehow the teacher has moved and even though Frank’s gaze has been locked on him, he hadn’t seen it happen. “Do I need to take you to the hospital? You hit your head again, maybe they need to check you out-“

“No!” The teacher leans back a bit, jumping with the sudden shout from Iero. Frank’s trembling slightly, the hairs are raising on his arms and then suddenly they’re raising on the teacher’s own. There’s a prickle in the air, a drop in the temperature of the room and it sends McDonald flying to his feet. _He’s here._ The teacher thinks. _He’s here. In the school. Right now. He’s here._

“Frank, I think we should get you down to the nurse’s office, get you sent home for the day? Right? Yeah, let’s get you up.” Frank’s arms flail wildly, one palm coming up to rest against the side of his head as McDonald forces his hands under his armpits and lifts his student up on to his feet. 

“‘M fine, don’t need to go home.”

“Your stumbling suggests otherwise.” McDonald is practically carrying Frank back to the door even though the kid is moving his feet along with him. He’s got to get Iero out of here now. The door swings open just as McDonald reaches for the handle and he’s frozen in his tracks, holding Frank up against his side as hazel eyes meet his blues. There’s a grin spreading across the other’s face and McDonald wishes, desperately so, there weren’t other students present so he could at least attempt to throw a few punches. 

“Ah, Bryce. Just who I was looking for.” McDonald, Bryce, takes a step backwards as the other steps forward, pulling the metal door shut behind him. The hazel eyes shift and seem to brighten in recognition of the practically limp form hanging off the teacher’s arm. “Oh, Frank! Well, this is perfect. I can kill two birds with one stone, then.” The implications of what’s been said are not lost on Bryce. His body is already shifting in front of Frank’s just a bit more as he shoots daggers at the other, who’s meeting it with equal knife wielding capabilities. 

“Seems Iero’s a bit out of it hmm? So I guess I can freely say as I wouldn’t be so brazen to start anything here. You should know that by now Bryce, you’re cleverer than that right? You already know how…it happens.” The brief glance to Frank’s flame-scarred arm is enough. 

“Then you can just go ahead and get the Hell out, Gerard.” Bryce growls. The cackle is startling, but Frank’s form growing heavier against him is even more concerning. 

“Bit tuckered isn’t he or maybe he’s having a wee problem with his brain. Gettin’ slammed around like that? So soon after a head injury? I mean, what was he thinking coming back to school so soon, am I right?” Gerard takes a few more steps forward, pushing the pair up against the wall, Frank practically dragging along now. “Here, I’ll just take him off your hands for you. Get the poor guy home to his nice, warm bed. Sure he’ll feel much better all wrapped up and toasty.” 

Bryce lunges then, swinging one fist out that is so swiftly caught by Gerard he didn’t even see him move. The air drops a few more degrees and when he meets Gerard’s eyes again, they’re pitch black, the skin around them slightly sunken and bruised in appearance. 

“You know, this is the second time today someone’s pissed me off. I’m really rather inclined to just bite the bullet and eliminate a few players personally.” A lump catches in Bryce’s throat and he’s nearly choking on it as cold seeps into his veins, crawling up his arm. It’s only thanks to the sudden appearance of another that it’s cut off midway up his bicep. 

“Gerard!” Right before his eyes, Gerard’s mask slips and his appearance changes rapidly. It’s something he never thought he’d witness firsthand and it has his lunch threatening to take the stage for an encore. He’s staring at death, literally, and he’s terrified. The other figure is a complete blur in his mind, so focused on the white haired figure directly in front of him, still clenching his fist. 

“What?” Gerard snarls, lip curling like a dog as his grip tightens on Bryce’s fist, but that cold creep through his appendage doesn’t return. 

“He’s back.” Just like that Bryce is alone. Frank’s still there too of course, a dead weight against his arm, completely passed out. They’re gone though. He’s gone. Gerard had shown his face. His true face. Bryce McDonald has never felt so sick in his life.

***

Time has passed. That much, Mikey is sure of. The air feels different, charged and heavy. It’s the first thing he notices when his eyes finally pry themselves open. Second thing he notices is a red rose, petals blackened at its tips, laying within arms reach. It’s a bit blurry still, his vision is still not quite all there and he doesn’t expect it will be for a little while more. Mikey’s body feels like it’s made of glass, broken and shattered, then pitifully glued back together by a four year old. It’ll pass, this feeling. After all, it’s nothing new to the younger Way. 

The rose’s burnt petals flutter in the barest of breezes as he watches through the fuzzy lens of his pupils attempting to restore themselves. Then the smell of ash wafts up in to his nose, caught on the wind. Unable to turn his head or move his arm, there’s nothing he can do to block out the smell except to just stop breathing, and so he does. 

The first few moments after cutting off his own airflow are ones he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to get past. Breathing is natural, breathing is - _was_ \- necessary. Once upon a time. He breathes because it makes him normal out there, but in here? His lungs don’t need to carry this vile air within them. Still, he can’t fight his body’s normal reaction to the cut off.

Everything is okay for a few seconds, until that slow heat starts to creep in to the lungs, building and building until there’s a fire in his chest. A few minutes tick past and it’s engulfing his body, threatening to do something it no longer can until, finally it can do no more and it relinquishes its hold. Numbness settles in and everything calms once more. His vision improves marginally.

Mikey tests the limits of his limbs, judging whether he can actually lift himself from the ground yet or if the bones still have not fully patched themselves back together. The fingers twitch and curl seemingly well, the toes wiggle in his boots. Lifting his head is a bit of an exercise on his spine, but he manages, then slowly he’s able to rise up on to his knees. The bones creak throughout his body, little darts of pain shoot like phantoms through his veins, only registering them as such by memory of the feeling. It just doesn’t hurt, it’s more like a reminder that something is wrong physically, eliciting groans of annoyance rather than discomfort. 

Once his body is steady where he kneels, then and only then does Mikey rise to his feet. It’s a little unstable, a little wobbly where the shins might not be fully healed back together, but he’s upright and that’s progress. Not being able to see clearly is irritating, but he’ll manage. There’s a brief thought to just summon the glasses he manifests out there, but in reality they would do him no good. His eyes aren’t unfocused, they were just completely dried out husks days ago. Gerard would pay for what he put Mikey through, but not now. Not yet. Frank comes first and Mikey has to know he’s okay. 

Unfortunately, he realizes after a few moments trying to summon up whatever thrum of energy he can find within him that nothing is going to happen any time soon. He’s effectively stuck here, in this godforsaken place for the time being. _Gerard._ Weakening him like that, reducing him to nearly nothing, and trapping him here using his own body against him? Two can play that game and he’ll be sure to put Hell itself to shame the moment he finds his dear older brother. For now, he takes a weak step forward, then another, and another until he’s trudging through the ash falling from the sky. The sound of voices in the distance beckoning him home. 

***

“Frank, did you take your medicine?” Gramps calls out from the kitchen. There’s pots and pans rustling around, the smell of marinara sauce in the air. Dinner is well underway and Frank’s mouth would be watering if he’d just stop glaring at the television screen. It’s been almost a month now. Frank’s on the last of his meds from the hospital, mainly because he kept forgetting, more than once, to take them. It’s been almost thirty days and still there’s no sign of Mikey. Just a gaping hole in the house and in the desks of the classes they share where his friend used to be. Possessive, overbearing stalker he is, but admittedly a friend. A best friend. Frank’s only friend and he’s up and vanished. 

Something clocks Frank in the side of the head before plopping down in to his lap and there’s the sounds of his grandfather’s sniggering and shuffling of his “inside shoes” as he quickly rounds the corner back in to the kitchen out of sight. The little bottle of Frank’s antibiotics sits squarely in his lap and all he can do is stare. Despite the momentary smile his grandfather’s playful nature brings about, his mind is still on his friend. 

Without Mikey present, school has become literal hell. The short teen spends his time split between being shoved in lockers or dunked under the shower heads after gym, then squelching his way around for the remainder of his classes. It was quiet too, aside from the jeers from his peers and the increasing intensity of an oddly paranoid looking Gurner’s verbal assaults on Frank about his slip in grades, which had taken a serious nosedive into oblivion in the absence of his personal drill sergeant at his side. 

“Frank! Dinner’s on!” Gramps calls from the kitchen, snapping Frank out of his thoughts. The air smells like heaven. Italian heaven. The wafting scent grasps at Frank’s limbs, coaxing him up off the couch and dragging him from the living room with invisible strings toward the kitchen. A few steps away from rounding the corner, his cords are cut by a sound and he nearly trips over his own feet. The doorbell trills over the noise of the television he’s left on, calling out from down the hall. Who the fuck is ringing their doorbell? _Nobody ever rings their doorbell._ Nobody ever even visits aside from Mikey. _Mikey!_ Frank’s sprinting towards the door before he knows it, grasping the handle, flicking the lock, shouting out a quick “you’ve got a lot of explaining to do asshole,” and yanking the door nearly off its frame only to come to a complete, screeching halt when it’s not Mikey on the other side. It’s Gerard. 


End file.
